


One In A Million

by verucasalt123



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Community: mpregbigbang, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why is it not so shocking that Sherlock is one of the almost unheard of men on earth who is a male carrier? This is just a story about two people dealing with the effects an unplanned pregnancy has on their life, their work, and their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One In A Million

It was raining, of course, because it’s London and because John had suffered a spectacularly miserable day at the surgery. So getting soaked on his way to the front door was just a fitting way to end the day. 

Or so he thought. Until he opened the door.

“What the _hell_ is going on in here?” John shouted from the doorway of their Baker Street flat. He’d smelled the smoke as soon as he’d stepped onto the stairs. No doubt another of Sherlock’s experiments gone awry. Typical. If they didn’t have a case to be worked, the goddamn experiments were near constant. Something had to occupy that brain, after nearly two years John had grown to accept it, except when things were being _caught on fire_.

John did the best he could to keep Sherlock _occupied_ these days. They’d stepped over the line from flatmates to lovers a couple of months ago, but it hadn’t been long enough that the shiny newness of it had worn off. They snogged on the sofa, traded blowjobs on the kitchen table, spent long mornings and afternoons and evenings and nights in bed together, still caught up in what they’d found in each other. 

It didn’t keep Sherlock from his godforsaken experiments, though. Pieces of bodies, mystery chemicals, hypotheses and conclusions. Surely there was no way John could put a permanent end to these occurrences, no matter how much distraction and persuasion and downright _bossy-ness_ he’d put into the effort. 

Once John reached the kitchen, Sherlock was fanning the air, trying to dissipate the smoke just as much as he was trying to look casual, like nothing was wrong. “It’s fine, John, it’s all fine, a little mishap is all.”

“I swear one of these days you’re going to blow this whole damn place to bits. Think of Mrs Hudson! Lying in pieces out by the sodding bins because you had to try some crazy shit out for curiosity’s sake!”

“Oh, you’re being dramatic, love, you know I’d never…”

“How the bloody hell could I know if you don’t know?” John was still annoyed but the underlying concern came through clearly from the soft look in his eyes. “I get that you’re in danger while you’re working sometimes, but when you’re not, can’t you just…please, just try to not put yourself in harm’s way any more than necessary?”

Sherlock recognized the look and was chastened within seconds. “I’m sorry, John. You know I get a little carried away sometimes. I’ll try to do better, I promise.” And he meant it, he really did. Of course, he always meant it, every time he said it, but that didn’t stop him from doing it again a week or a month later. Every one of his little projects started off as something benign, but with perspective from John, he was beginning to see that there was more risk involved than he ever gave a minute’s thought to when he started them. 

“It’s all right, just been a long goddamn day. I’m going to get a shower, will you clean this up?”

“Yes, I – yes, of course I will. I’ll be up to bed in just a bit.”

John left the room without kissing him, and Sherlock set about getting the kitchen straightened up. He knew John was upset, not _really_ angry, but not happy either. On the Watson Cursing Scale (which Sherlock had designed himself, assuring its complete accuracy), their earlier discussion had only been about a 4, so it couldn’t be that bad. He genuinely hoped he’d get a chance to make it up to John tonight. Get him out of this mood, coax him into forgetting the whole smoking chemical mishap in the kitchen. There were ways…

Half an hour later, Sherlock opened the door to their bedroom to see John climbing into bed. Not naked, as he had done since they’d started sharing a room, but in sleep pants and a t-shirt. Damn. 

Sherlock crawled into bed, still fully clothed, saying, “This wasn’t how I’d hoped this night was going to end up, love.”

“Oh? You had some kind of plan for how this night would go, then?” John asked.

“Well, you know, it was just the other day we got our test results back…”

John got it then. Yeah, they’d been sleeping together for a good while but neither of them was willing to take any chances until they were both tested for sexually transmitted diseases. Sherlock wasn’t experienced, honestly, he really hadn’t even had any sex at all for years before John, but he had engaged in some unprotected sex in the past. Not to mention his IV drug use (which, thankfully, was no longer an issue). John, on the other hand, had rightfully earned his nickname of “Three Continents Watson”, and though he’d done his best to be safe in his past sexual encounters, there were no guarantees. There had been more than one occasion where a drunken sexual liaison had led to faulty judgment. 

So every time they’d had sex, they’d used a condom. No need to take an unnecessary risk, John had insisted and Sherlock had agreed. Neither of them had ever exhibited any symptoms, but from his medical training, John knew that it was far more common for men to harbor sub-clinical illnesses than women. The fact that they hadn’t seen or felt anything wrong didn’t mean there wasn’t something there. 

Sherlock hated the condoms, though. He claimed it tamped down the sensation, which was not entirely unreasonable, and he longed to feel himself filled with his lover’s release, to have John’s cum dripping out of him after John had climaxed. To feel the same for himself when he’d come inside of John. 

John didn’t like it any better, but he was above all a practical man, and wasn’t willing to take a chance with something so serious.

Eventually, both of them had gotten up the courage to get tested. They went together, to a clinic far from where John worked, so that the necessary examinations could be completed. It was just a few days ago that the post had brought their results: neither of them were positive for anything, both completely clean.

Since then, though, John had the misfortune of double-shifts at the surgery, and Sherlock was finishing up the details of a kidnapping case he’d helped Lestrade solve. There hadn’t been much time to talk about it, or, for John’s part, even think about it. 

And now wasn’t the time for it, either. “Don’t take it personally, love, I know I was ticked off earlier, but I’m not angry with you, honest. I’m just that I’m completely exhausted and you’re…well, you smell like burnt eggs. Go take a shower and come sleep with me, yeah?” John smiled and kissed Sherlock softly, hoping it would help ease the tension. 

“Of course, it’s all right. I understand.” Sherlock tried to mask his disappointment but he really did get it. John was tired and not in the mood and that was to be expected sometimes. By the time he returned from his shower, it was obvious that his lover had been making a valiant attempt to stay awake until Sherlock returned to their bed. Even half-asleep, John always knew how to make him feel better. 

Sliding under the covers, Sherlock felt John shift, pressing his chest to Sherlock’s back and reaching out to pull him close. He felt the brush of John’s lips against his shoulder, the heat of John’s breath as he whispered, “Love you” into his skin. For once, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for Sherlock to fall into a comfortable state of rest, sleeping along the side of the man who was his partner in so many more ways than one. 

John, as usual, woke first. His years in the Army had trained his body to wake with the sun except under extreme circumstances. He’d gotten used to being the early riser in their flat. Extricating himself from his hold on Sherlock, he quietly got to his feet and crept out of their bedroom, heading toward the lav, then directly to the kitchen. It was a comfortable morning routine; putting the kettle on, humming a pop song that he knew Sherlock would have frowned at if he’d been awake, fetching the day’s paper from outside the doorway to 221. 

This particular morning, he met Mrs Hudson on his way back to the stairs. 

“John! It’s good to see you, dear, you must have been working terrible hours lately. It’s been too long since I’ve even seen you walk in the door.”

“I have, Mrs Hudson, but I’ve got a couple of days off now, a little time to rest. How are you? Anything you need down here?”

“Oh, no, not – well, I’ve got a drawer in the kitchen that’s a bit wobbly…”

“I’ll take care of it today”, John replied, kissing her on the cheek and heading back up the stairs as he heard the kettle starting to whistle. 

Returning to his morning routine, John made his tea and toasted his bread, covering it with jam before settling into a sitting room chair with the newspaper. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. More genocide in Africa, riots in the Middle East, disgusting bigotry in the United States…never anything good on these pages. He wasn’t about to start his day off in a foul mood, though, so he just pulled out the crossword and grabbed a pencil. A small laugh made its way to the surface at the random realization that Sherlock would have used a pen. 

Sherlock. Just the thought of him, of what they had together, made John feel a little cozier, a little more at ease. He’d never thought he’d find someone he’d want to share his life with to this extent. Staring down the barrel at forty, John had almost given up on the possibility that one day he’d settle down into a domestic routine, a steady relationship. But then came Sherlock, the friend of a friend, the mysterious stranger who had ended up meaning more to him within a day than anyone else he’d ever known. 

Suddenly feeling a little bad about the night before, John set down his paper and made his way back to the bedroom, where Sherlock was, of course, still soundly sleeping. He got back into his side of the bed (oh, they had sides of the bed, that was really something), wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s chest and breathed in the scent of him…remnants of cologne, sweat, sleep…

Sherlock stirred at the recognition of his lover’s touch, and pushed back a little, snuggling farther into their embrace. He didn’t mind being the _little spoon_ , regardless of the fact that John was smaller (no, he wasn’t, not really, just not as tall). “Morning, John.”

“I’ve been up for an hour, darling. Just thought I’d see if you wanted some company in here. I’ve got the day off, you know.”

“Mmmmmm”, Sherlock sighed contentedly. “The whole day?”

“And tomorrow, too. I can’t imagine how we’re going to fill up all those hours” John replied, a small grin on his face. 

“Oh, I think you can. I think you already have, in fact.”

“Well, you’ve caught me out on that, then.”

Sherlock turned to face John and kissed him slowly, gently, wanting to start off the morning at a good pace. If what he wanted for the next day or so was going to become reality, they couldn’t burn off all their energy at once. John seemed to sense it and just kissed him back, running his hands softly against Sherlock’s arm and chest. After a few moments, though, John’s fingers found Sherlock’s nipples and started stroking there, then pulling a bit, eliciting some very satisfactory moans in reply. It wasn’t more than five minutes of that before Sherlock reached into John’s sleep pants and wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock. 

“Fuck…”

“Yes, John, I’d like that” Sherlock replied, knowing John had just been cursing, the way he always did, not actually suggesting an activity. 

Not that John didn’t want to fuck. He did. He _really_ did. 

Moving in closer, John was happy to feel that Sherlock’s dick was as hard as his, thrusting against his hip. “I’m taking off my clothes now” he said, completely unnecessarily. Sherlock pulled up at the hem of John’s t-shirt as John kicked off his pants. They were both now equally naked and wanting and trying so hard not to go too fast. 

“Do you want-” John didn’t get a chance to finish his question before Sherlock responded. 

“God, yes, _please_.”

Reaching behind himself to the nightstand, Sherlock handed John the bottle of lube they kept there, but not one of the condoms they normally used. 

Today was different. Today they didn’t need one. Today they weren’t going to use one, for the very first time. 

Shifting himself on the bed, John pushed Sherlock’s knees up and back, giving him easy access, then coated his fingers with slick. At first, he just teased a bit, pushing against and around Sherlock’s entrance as he listened to his lover whine and finally plead for more. Even after all this time, Sherlock still gasped at the first intrusion, John’s index finger breaching his hole. It didn’t take long, though, before he was pushing back against it, wordlessly asking for more. 

John was fine with giving him _more_. He never wanted to fuck Sherlock until he was sure Sherlock was ready, physically ready. He took his time opening him up, one finger, then two, three, with more lube, until he heard what he wanted to hear.

“Please, for the love of God, get inside me, John, _please_ …”

And that was all it took. John slicked up his own erection and looked Sherlock straight into his eyes from above as he pushed, little by little, until he was fully seated inside his lover. He waited, like always, for Sherlock to adjust and give him a sign, just a small nod of his head, until he started to move. 

Christ, he’d never felt anything like this before. John hadn’t thought it would be quite _that_ different without a condom, but it was, it was amazing, just his cock inside Sherlock’s ass, skin to skin. Even that thin barrier of latex had blocked this incredible sensation. Neither of them expected it to be this intense…either from the lack of a physical barrier between them or the meaning behind the act of having unprotected sex, nothing separating them. 

Sherlock could feel his heart racing, his pulse increasing, could hear his breath hitching with every thrust. All he could do was wrap his arms around John’s neck, his legs around John’s waist, and **love** each second of it. 

Both of them wanted this to last longer, to be more romantic than frantic, but it just wasn’t going to happen. When John felt his orgasm growing closer, he reached between them and grabbed Sherlock’s dick, stroking it in time with each of his thrusts inside him. It wasn’t more than ten minutes before they were both shouting each other’s name as they were overtaken by their release. 

Lying next to each other afterward, Sherlock, of course, was the one to break the silence.

“This is messy.”

John laughed into Sherlock’s chest, where his face was buried since he had no energy to move. “Quite. So, you want to go back to-”

“God, no! It’s glorious, I love it. Can’t wait until it’s my turn to get you all dripping wet”, he replied, kissing the top of John’s head and laughing along with him. 

“Me too. But for now, let’s get cleaned up, yeah? I promised Mrs Hudson I’d fix her kitchen drawer, so we can’t spend the _entire_ day in bed.”

“All right, not _all_ day, but most of it? Please?”

And damn if Sherlock saying ‘please’ wasn’t one of the biggest turn-ons of John’s whole fucking life. “Yes, love, most of the day. And most of the night”, John responded, landing soft kisses across Sherlock’s chest as he finally gained enough strength to move his head a bit. 

So they took their showers, separately (no matter how much lust was involved, a man’s refractory period had to be taken into consideration). John dressed and went downstairs to make his promised repair, while Sherlock just threw on a dressing gown and settled into reading the newspaper after John had brought him tea and toast of his own. 

Returning to their flat, John found Sherlock finishing the crossword puzzle he’d started earlier. And he was right, Sherlock was holding a pen. He’d even corrected a few of John’s responses, which wasn’t really a surprise. 

They did end up spending most of the afternoon and evening in bed, alternately cuddling and fucking and making _messes_. Both of them fell into a contented sleep earlier than usual; for once, Sherlock succumbing before John. 

John took the opportunity to study his lover, his features relaxed and calm like they almost never were while he was awake. Sherlock was beautiful, always, but like this…God, John still couldn’t figure out what he’d done in his life to deserve such happiness. That was the thought that carried him away to sleep himself, wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms like a blanket, like a safety net, like everything he’d always needed but never known until now.

So they weren’t teenagers, and they didn’t have sex every day, but over the next couple of weeks, it happened more often than usual. The newness of not using condoms anymore was exciting, and both men reveled in the feeling of bare skin against bare skin. 

Another case came up about a month and a half after that first time, and Sherlock was his usual hyperactive self, except for one strange thing – he slept. It had been established early on that while Sherlock was working, he never ate or slept, which John accepted because he knew once the case was done he’d be able to feed his lover boxes of curry and noodles before Sherlock would fall into a twelve or fourteen hour sleep to catch up. 

This time was different. Alarmingly so, in John’s opinion; not a concern for Sherlock since he brushed it off as “Just a little rest, I’ll be back on in an hour or two”. He’d even gotten Sherlock to eat, just once, but still…something poked into his brain, _wrong, not usual, find out why_. John had developed an instinct for ‘finding out why’ since he’d been working with his flatmate, his friend, then his lover. 

Eventually, he decided to confide in their friend Greg, who knew as much (maybe more?) about Sherlock than John did. 

“Have you ever known him to sleep or eat while he’s working?”

“No, honestly, but I’m not the one who goes home with him. Is it that out of the ordinary?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. He won’t admit it, obviously, but something’s off. I can’t tell what, exactly, because he’s acting like it’s no big deal, but…I can’t help it. Just a gut feeling.”

“Don’t know what to tell you, mate. I’d encourage you to try coaxing some information out of him if I didn’t already know he’s not going to say anything he doesn’t want to say.”

So, yeah, not a helpful conversation. 

Even after the case was done, John could see a difference. Sherlock slept more, ate more (without prompting), and generally seemed a bit fatigued. He wouldn’t admit to feeling any differently, though. 

Not until he was utterly caught out. 

For once, John had woken to an empty bed. When the hell had Sherlock ever gotten up before he did? But then he heard it. Wretching sounds from the lav, which got John on his feet and out of the bedroom in seconds. Standing in the door to the bathroom, he took in the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of the toilet, naked and dry-heaving and sweaty. 

Immediately, John was on the floor next to him, rubbing his back and trying to making comforting sounds into his right ear. He was not prepared for the reaction that followed.

“ **Get out**! For God’s sake, get the fuck out, I can’t have you see me like this, it’s disgusting. Just _go_!”

The outburst startled John, but not enough that he didn’t follow Sherlock’s instructions. He slowly got to his feet and backed away, closing the door behind him. He had no idea what to make of this situation, he’d never seen Sherlock sick before, and he understood why his lover wouldn’t want him to see what he would view as a weakness. Sherlock had always been the strong one. As long as they’d known each other, John couldn’t recall Sherlock having so much as a common cold, let alone something that would take him down this hard. It was spring, his doctor’s mind supplied, hardly flu season, and there was nothing in recent memory that would have exposed either of them to a stomach bug. 

Chastened by Sherlock’s harsh words, John stayed away. Eventually, though, Sherlock emerged into the sitting room, his face washed but still looking pale. “I’m sorry for shouting, John. Forgive me, it’s just that I’m not used to…”

“Being sick?” John supplied. “Yes, I know, I haven’t ever seen you sick before. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s not a weakness-”

“Fuck if it’s not a weakness! It is!” Sherlock shouted, and all right, that was the second time today John heard Sherlock curse. That only deepened his concern. Sherlock frowned upon John’s frequent profanity, had expressed his opinion that cursing was _pedestrian_ , in that condescending way of his that John had learned to brush off long ago. 

Something was definitely wrong. Really, truly wrong. John felt it instinctively. 

“Sherlock, you’re going to fight me on this, but you’ve got to see a doctor.”

And of course, Sherlock laughed. “I’m looking at a doctor right now. Maybe I ate something…bad? Too much? I’m not used to eating so often, it’s just thrown me off a bit.”

“So why are you eating so often? Do you feel hungry or are you just eating when I do, you know, like a normal person eats, a couple of times a day?”

Sherlock considered his response for a moment, then said, “I’m hungry. I’m eating because I’m hungry and I’m sleeping because I’m tired and I don’t know why” with a resigned sigh. “You’re going to make a big deal out of this, I can already tell.”

“It _is_ a big deal, love, I’m not making that up. You’re doing things that are completely abnormal, for you, and you’re sick. You’re going to see a doctor and that’s that, don’t bother arguing” John responded with his very best Captain Watson tone. 

Sherlock’s reply was icy. “I just said, I’m looking at a doctor right now. Why can’t you just figure out what the hell this is and fix it?”

So, no surprise there, Sherlock didn’t want his business made public. All right, John could deal with that. 

“Fine. I’ll bring you into the surgery and examine you myself, get a blood sample maybe and a piss test, see if I can figure out what’s going on. We’ll have privacy, I assure you. But we’re going now. Today. No negotiations.”

Sherlock recognized the tone in his lover’s voice and realized there was no point in fighting it. “All right. I’ll go.” Honestly, he wanted to know what was going on. He almost never got tired or hungry unless he’d just finished working a case, and he couldn’t remember vomiting (other than the whole drug withdrawal thing) since he was in primary school. 

Hours later, John assured Sherlock that he’d labeled the samples under an assumed name, but that it might take a few days to get the results back. And then, of course, they just went home. Sherlock wasn’t feeling any better, but John knew he didn’t have a fever so there was probably not any kind of viral or bacterial infection happening. So events continued, John brought Sherlock tea in bed, Sherlock worried quietly and John fought back panic.

Until the next day, when John was accosted while picking up sandwiches at Speedy’s. 

“Why did you take my brother for medical testing, John? What’s wrong?”

Fuck. Mycroft. How the hell did he not anticipate that Mycroft would know _everything_ about _everything_? John sighed but resigned himself to the inevitable.

“He’s sick, I think. Tired all the time and hungry but vomiting. Probably a bug, I don’t know, but we’ll get some results from the blood tests in a day or two.”

“John, I apologize in advance for asking such a personal question, but you two don’t have relations…unprotected? Right? I assume you’d take that precaution given both of your backgrounds.”

Anger surged up in John, and he resisted the instinct to knock a couple of Mycroft’s teeth loose. “Our sex life is none of your sodding business. And anyway, what the fuck would that have to do with anything? If, _hypothetically_ , we didn’t use protection, it would only be because we’d both been tested and assured neither of us had any kind of sexually transmitted disease. Not that one of us having the goddamn clap or something would make Sherlock exhibit the symptoms he’s having now.”

Mycroft took a minute before responding. “I am sorry for upsetting you, honestly. Won’t you please just sit with me a moment? Let me give you some information?”

And yeah, there was no way John was saying no to that. _Mycroft bloody Holmes_ voluntarily sharing information? Not passing up the opportunity, no chance.

So they sat, John holding onto his bag of sandwiches and Mycroft resting his umbrella against the table. “I assume you’ve heard, at some point in your medical training, about the rare incidents of male carriers?”

It took a minute for John to make the connection, but when he did, he was incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. Yes, I’ve heard of two cases, **two** , in all my years studying and practicing medicine. The incidence is, as I recall, less than one in ten million. Mathematically, as close to impossible as it gets.”

“You’re correct. Far less than _one in a million_ , as the saying goes. There’s a story in my family that our great -grandfather’s older brother was a carrier.”

“Sherlock never told me anything like that.”

“He never knew. Times were different then, it was more than a century ago. People found out about him, and he was found beaten to death just outside our property before either of our parents or our grandparents were even born, when our great-grandfather was still just a boy. No one ever spoke of it. I only know because-”

“Because you know fucking everything. Right. So are you trying to tell me that Sherlock is…he’s a carrier? He can…” John almost choked on the words, “get – be – he’s fertile? He could carry a child?”

Mycroft had the decency to look just the slightest bit chastened. “I suspected, but I didn’t _know_ , all right? If I had, I would have told him, I swear. But he was almost never sick as a child or teenager, never had much medical testing, so there was no indication, physically. The only way to identify a man as a carrier is genetic testing or finding out that he’s conceived. I decided there was no reason to worry him over some old family tale and some unreliable instinct on my part. You know how he reacts to assertions that _can’t be proved_.”

John’s head was spinning. No way, no fucking way, this couldn’t be-

“Look, all I’m saying is, if you’re doing tests, you’re doing the wrong ones. Blood test for hCG, or have him do one of those things where you urinate on a plastic stick. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry to have worried you unnecessarily. But I couldn’t keep this from you, even if it’s just a remote possibility.”

Before John had a chance to gather his thoughts enough to respond, Mycroft and his umbrella were gone. He was alone at the table with his bag of sandwiches and his newly discovered, absolutely horrifying, information.

There was really nothing left to do now, except carry the food back up to the flat and try to find a way to break the news to Sherlock. It was highly improbable, clearly, but the possibility couldn’t be overlooked. 

Spreading out their lunch on the kitchen table, John started in, trying to keep his voice casual. “I ran into your brother downstairs.”

Sherlock was no fool. “Mycroft doesn’t just _run in_ to anyone. What did he want?”

“Well, he knew I’d taken you for a checkup. But…he had a different theory. Maybe that this isn’t some kind of bug making you not feel well.” John could already feel his cheeks heating up at the thought of disclosing the rest of the information he’d been given.

“All right, so what’s big brother’s idea? Something that’s got you worried, clearly.”

Steeling himself for a clinical explanation, John started, “So, I guess you’ve probably heard that there is a tiny incidence in the male population that are _carriers_?”

It took Sherlock approximately sixteen seconds to make the connection. “You mean fetal carriers? Men who can gestate a fetus? They’re almost non-existent. The statistical odds-”

“Yes, Sherlock, I know. But if you would just humor me. Humor your brother. Please. We can eliminate that as a possibility and move on with finding out what’s really going on here. Will you?”

“Well, of course I will. It’s a ridiculous notion. We can have it over with in minutes. Have you got to take some more blood, or…?”

“No, actually, I stopped to get one of those ‘pee on a stick’ things down the block. It’s got an electronic reading, you just do what you’ve got to do, and it’ll light up the results in two minutes.”

“Fine, let me have my sandwich first, though, I’m starving.”

They both let the declaration hang in the air for a moment, then started in on their lunch. Afterwards, Sherlock simply said, “Give me the thing, the…stick, whatever. I’ll piss on it and we can put this to rest.”

Four minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the lav, his eyes wild and his hands shaking. He held the plastic bearer of horrific news out to his lover as he leaned against the wall for support.

God, no. No, no, no, it couldn’t be…

Positive. Clear as day. 

John wasted no more time before heading out to purchase four more instant tests. Each one left them with the same result, and each one had Sherlock increasingly agitated.

“Shh. Sherlock, I am so, so sorry. I never meant – if I had known, I never would have agreed to unprotected sex. You’ve got to know that.”

“Of course I know that, John. You never had any intention of getting me…knocked up. Neither of us knew it was a possibility. But now it’s a fact. So we’ve got a serious decision to make. This thing, the, uh….the pregnancy. It can obviously be terminated straight away.” Sherlock said, in a manner-of-fact tone with just a hint of his voice shaking underneath it.

Slightly taken aback, John replied, “Is that what you’d like to do? I won’t fight you over it. You’re right, we didn’t know it was a possibility, but now…well, it’s up to you. Whatever decision you make, it’s your body…” John choked on his next words but felt they were the right thing to say, “you’re the one who has to live with, ah – you know. With having a baby or not. So yeah, you” _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ “you don’t have to worry, if you don’t want this,” **lies lies lies lies lies** “if you want to have it or not, it’s your call.”

Sherlock, of course, saw through it before the words were even out. “Do you have any idea how transparent you are, John? Honestly? If I’m pregnant, that means you’re the” not the father, that would make Sherlock a mother, and no, just _no_ “other parent. You’ve got a say in this too. And if you think for a second that it’s not obvious you want me to keep this baby, you’re far less clever than I’ve ever given you credit for.”

For a moment, there was silence. Sherlock gave John a few minutes to process the situation, to come to his own conclusions, maybe find his voice again. When he did, the result was certainly not what Sherlock expected, and not what John expected, either, given that up til now, a situation like this was purely theoretical. John hadn’t had many long-term relationships before. If he’d been told by a woman who’d been his girlfriend for a couple of months that she was pregnant because they hadn’t been careful, what he said to Sherlock was exactly what he would have said to whoever that hypothetical woman was. He believed absolutely that in this kind of situation, the woman was the one who had all the decision-making power. In a case like that, John could have walked away at any time, could have lived with a woman not wanting to have a baby she conceived with him, or with being a part-time dad and providing for a child that was his responsibility.

That wasn’t the case here, though. John hadn’t even been with a woman he’d contemplated spending the rest of his life with; there had never been a woman (or a man) that he’d loved the way he loved Sherlock. Ever since they’d been together, he hadn’t considered having children, because they couldn’t have children together.

Except now they could.

“Well, yeah….yeah, all right, I do. I want you to keep the baby, I want you to have it, I want to be its father, for both of us to be its father. But I can’t” John’s voice broke then, a tear escaping and making its way down his cheek, “I can’t ask you to go through all of that just because it’s what I want. It’s asking an awful lot, more than I’d ever ask of you. Please, you have to tell me the truth. Do you want to keep the baby or not?”

Sherlock wished like hell that he had a better answer, but John had asked him for the truth, and that’s exactly what he was going to get. “I don’t know. I need some time to think about it. It’s not a decision I can make in five minutes. Just give me a day or two? We don’t have to decide this very second, right? I mean, it’s still…early. Early enough, I mean, that I can take some time to think it over.”

Composing himself, John replied sensibly, forcing himself to be realistic. “That’s more than fair. I can get you some information, if you want. About, you know, all the options. Any choice you make would result in a surgical procedure, considering that you don’t have…I mean, you’re not…well, anyway, whatever research materials you might want, I can get them for you.”

“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, and I’m so sorry, John, please don’t think this means anything about us, about our relationship, but if I could just have some time alone…” 

If it was possible to feel his heart shatter into a million pieces, that’s exactly what John would have felt right at that moment. At the same time, he understood. Sherlock needed to make this decision, and it wouldn’t exactly be easy to come to his own conclusion if John were there all the time.

Taking a deep breath and attempting to steady his trembling hands, John responded, “Of course. I’ll go and stay with Harry a while, take as much time as you need.”

Sherlock wanted to reassure his lover. He knew his request was hurtful to John but he really did need to be alone while he thought this whole thing over. So he reached out, tentatively, and brushed his fingers along John’s cheek where there was still a tear lingering. “I love you, and I will love you always. I’ll figure this out, it won’t take long, I swear.”

John forced a smile and met Sherlock’s eyes. “Better not. I don’t like being away from you.”

“I don’t like it any better, you know that. I mean, you do _know_ that, right?”

Closing his eyes and letting out a breath, John leaned into Sherlock’s touch against his cheek. “Of course I do.”

Once he’d called his sister and packed a bag, he stood in front of the door doing his best to keep a brave face. 

“Call when you get there, please?”

“I will. But after that, you just text me or call me when you want to check in. I told you I’d give you time alone, so you’ll have as much as you need.”

Sherlock bent down and kissed him, trying to convey all the emotions he was feeling in that one act. John kissed him back and broke away. “I’ll see you soon.”

When he got onto the sidewalk, ready to hail a cab, he shouldn’t have been so surprised to see a sleek black car pull up at the curb. Shaking his head, he just got in and didn’t say a word. If Mycroft had sent a car, he’d known where John would be going, so he rested his head against the back of the seat and endured the ride in silence. 

John knew that Harry wasn’t thrilled with his refusal to explain why he’d needed to crash a night or two with her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to welcome him. They were the only family they had, really, and neither of them were inclined to refuse anything either of them asked from each other. He did as promised and called Sherlock to let him know he’d gotten to Harry’s, but then put his phone away and waited it out, pretending he wasn’t counting hours and minutes. 

But after he’d been there a day and a half ( _thirty eight hours, forty seven minutes_ ), he got the call.

“Please come home, John.” 

After thanking Harry for her patience and hospitality, that’s exactly what he did, in a taxi this time, not willing to wait for the car Sherlock had certainly asked his brother to send. 

Bounding up the stairs to their flat and throwing open the front door, John dropped his bag and moved toward Sherlock, who was sitting calmly on the sofa with his hands in his lap. He forced himself to move slowly, walking toward Sherlock and sitting down beside him, not touching, but close. 

“I’m glad you’re home, love, I missed you” were Sherlock’s first words before he turned and threw his arms around John’s neck, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. 

And it wasn’t like John didn’t feel grateful for it; he’d missed Sherlock like mad and was thrilled to be back home and locked in his embrace. But after a minute he pulled away, he had no other choice.

“So I take it you’ve made a decision?” he asked, trying like hell to make his voice sound level. 

“I have. I know you offered to get me information about the options available, but I was able to find them myself. And I read it, all of it, I understand everything that’s involved in…gestation.” Sherlock looked away before continuing. “It’s disgusting, really. Sounds rather like having a parasite, to be honest. As unpleasant as I could possibly imagine. I don’t have the slightest clue why people do this on purpose.”

John’s heart sank. Of course, _of course_ Sherlock would look at the practical and physical aspects and give them more weight than…well, than anything else. He’d seen Sherlock show emotions, act on them, give himself over to them, even. But this – all right, it was too much. Obviously too much. “I understand. We can make the arrangements straight away, there’s surely a doctor somewhere I can call-“

“No, you haven’t let me finish. I don’t, honestly, I really don’t get why people do this on purpose. _We_ didn’t do it on purpose. But this is what happened, whether we planned it or not. Either way, this…this baby is yours and mine, and I’m not willing to let go of that potential just because I might be caused some temporary discomfort. A few months of physical unpleasantness balanced against years of sharing something so profound…there’s no contest there. I want the baby, I want us to be parents. All right?” 

Sherlock sat and watched as John’s expression turned from misery to hopefulness to joy. 

“Really? You’re not doing this just for me?” John was still feeling cautious.

“Really. I do know that it’s what you want, but it’s what I want, too.”

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then looked up at Sherlock. “So we’re having a baby together, then?”

“Well, yes, I suppose we are.”

The first step they needed to take was to get a sonogram, see how far along the pregnancy was. After hours, Sherlock found himself hustled into one of the rooms in John’s workplace, divested of his shirt and lying on an exam table. 

John wasn’t an expert, but he knew he could figure this out. “I’m going to spread this gel onto your stomach, I’ll try to warm it up a bit…”

Sherlock shivered. “Still cold, John.”

“Sorry. Just be still, let me see if I can work this damn thing”, John replied, pressing the Doppler against the lower part of Sherlock’s concave belly. It took a minute or two, and they both heard the sound before they saw anything on the screen that was attached. 

“Is that…”

John was still for a moment, shocked into speechlessness, until he realized he was the one who was supposed to know what the fuck he was doing here. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s...the heartbeat. I know it sounds fast, but that’s normal. Nothing to be concerned about. I’m just trying to figure out – oh, Christ.”

Both their eyes were fixed on the screen then, at the sight of this tiny little kidney-shaped _thing_ inside of Sherlock. There was clearly a head, and the heartbeat could be seen as well as heard. John thought he could make out the beginnings of a spinal cord. Consulting a chart he’d confiscated from obstetrics, he made a few comparisons. 

Taking a deep breath, John declared “Eight weeks or so, I think. That’s what it looks like. It’s not my specialty or anything, but I think…yeah, I think about eight weeks.”

Sherlock was silent just for another moment, staring at the shape on the screen. “I’m going to need to see _an expert_ , though, right? At some point?”

“Yes, absolutely. I mean, I could probably take care of a pregnant woman in a pinch but a pregnant man? No, we’ll have to find someone else.”

“Not right away, though? I mean, I don’t think I’m ready for anyone else to know just yet, all right?”

And yes, John absolutely understood. “Yeah, we can give it another month or so. Only if you swear, and I am _goddamn serious_ , Sherlock, swear that if you feel like there’s anything wrong, you will tell me straight away.”

Sherlock took in John’s severe look and tone, recognized it for the love and protectiveness it represented, and responded, “Yes, John, if even the slightest thing feels off, I’ll tell you immediately. And anyway, since Mycroft was the one who brought all this up, he probably already knows. If anyone can put us in touch with someone who’s an expert on…this kind of thing, it’s him. Don’t even worry about talking to him, I’ll do it.”

John was taken aback with that statement. “Seriously? You’re going to talk to your brother about this?”

“Well, why the hell not? If he already knows, it’s not going to hurt anything. And he’ll be discreet, you know that.”

“Discretion is certainly one of Mycroft’s finer-honed skills”, John admitted. “I won’t say anything to anyone, though. Not until you’re ready.”

“Thanks. Just give me a couple of weeks, and we can find a way to break the news to our friends gently”, Sherlock replied with a grin. He couldn’t help imagining the look on Lestrade’s face. 

With that thought, another came quickly behind it.

“John, what does this mean for my work?” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t already considered it. He’d never seen any women Yarders chasing down criminals with swollen, pregnant bellies. He’d only seen them at the Met, sitting at desks, making phone calls and typing away at their computers. 

Oh, and another thought right behind that one, before John even had a chance to respond to his question. Sherlock sat up on the table, grabbing for his shirt and feeling very claustrophobic all of a sudden. He looked down at himself, tried to imagine what it would be like…Jesus Christ. He couldn’t change his mind now, and didn’t want to, honestly, especially after seeing that grainy image on the screen. But now it was so much more _real_ , not just like all the reading he’d done when he’d first found out. His body was going to be taken from him, ruled by something far more demanding than the addiction he’d beaten years ago. 

And eventually, he’d be getting sidelined. He’d grow too clumsy to run across rooftops, and it would be dangerous for the baby. 

John recognized Sherlock’s far-off look and could tell that the reality of their situation was becoming more concrete. He could almost see the wheels turning in that spectacular brain, and it kind of looked like panic. John knew he had to put a stop to that, as well as he could, so he hopped up onto the exam table next to Sherlock and leaned over so he could rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I know, love, it’s a serious interruption. You’re going to have to be much more careful with your body. It won’t be easy for you, don’t think I don’t know that. But like you said before, it’s temporary. Try to remember that bit. Whatever’s coming, you can handle. _We_ can handle. We’ll have our friends to support us, and at the end, we’ll have a baby, and it’ll be worth every minute.”

“I suppose”, Sherlock replied, still quite shaken up. He took a deep, shaky breath, turned to John and spoke as if he were confessing a grievous sin. “I’m afraid, John.”

“Me too. Let’s just go home for now, all right?” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek before helping him back into his shirt. 

A month later, Mycroft had come through and put them in touch with a specialist. Well, as much as there was any such thing as a ‘specialist’ in this particular field – a physician who’d taken care of two pregnant men in his career, but who had also done extensive research on the subject and published a few papers in well-respected medical journals. It was as good as they were going to get. After a cursory exam, another sonogram and some blood tests, Sherlock and the baby were both determined to be perfectly healthy, though the doctor voiced his opinion that Sherlock was a bit underweight. 

John, of course, thought this was quite an interesting observation and had to hold back a chuckle. If the doctor had only seen Sherlock six weeks ago…just this morning he was tossing half his clothing onto the floor of the bedroom and dramatically proclaiming that he’d have to see if Westwood made any trousers with elastic waistbands because everything he had was too tight. But it was true, though he’d gained almost an entire stone, he was still fairly thin. 

“You can’t possibly expect me to eat more than I already am?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “I eat twice a day now, _every_ day!”

John explained that Sherlock had a stressful job and didn’t eat on a regular basis before the pregnancy, so he was still getting used to regular nourishment. He did assure the doctor, though, that Sherlock had gained weight and was eating properly, getting enough calories into his body. He only needed an extra 300 or so a day, so it wasn’t that difficult, especially since now Sherlock actually got hungry and acknowledged it. 

Getting Sherlock to eat had been no challenge at all compared to the tantrums John had endured while Sherlock gave up the nicotine patches. There hadn’t been any resistance, Sherlock hadn’t tried to sneak them or make any excuses about how it would be okay, but holy mother of fuck, the man had been a terror the likes of which John had never seen before (which was really saying something). Even their friends at the Met, who’d known him much longer, had been taken aback by Sherlock’s temper. It only lasted a couple of weeks, but Lestrade had taken John aside twice to ask what the bloody hell was going on. 

Now it was time to let people in on the secret. They both felt ready, but were a bit unsure about how to start. Only Mycroft knew, but he never brought it up, never asked any questions, just discreetly handed the business card of this doctor to John without a word. Both men agreed that Harry should be the first person they told. She didn’t have any connections to their other friends, and she was the only family John had. They’d let Mrs Hudson know next, and then Lestrade…of course, after that, the people at the Met were going to have to know, because it wouldn’t be too much longer before it was obvious, and Sherlock’s recent odd behavior hadn’t gone unnoticed anyway. 

Harry’s reaction hadn’t been a surprise, going into a full-on rant about how John could even consider raising a child with _that confounding git_. It didn’t take long, though, before she calmed down seeing how happy John was at the news. “I’m going to be an auntie, and spoil this child absolutely rotten.” John just rolled his eyes and accepted her hug and her apology for her earlier words. 

They had the conversation with Mrs Hudson together, and though of course she was shocked at first, she quickly became enthusiastic, rattling on about prams and baby food and how wonderful it would be to have a little one around the place. “We’ll see how you feel about that when the baby’s screaming in the middle of the night”, John supplied with a grin. She just embraced them both and reminded them repeatedly that she would do anything she could to help out. “Here I am never having any of my own children and feeling like I’m going to be a grandmother!” she told them, her eyes brimming with tears. In a rare display of sentiment, Sherlock assured her that she was the best grandmother they could hope to have for their baby. He meant it, too. Mrs Hudson had been good to him, good to both of them, and Sherlock had a special place in his heart for her. 

By mutual decision, John and Sherlock decided to meet Greg at the pub to share the news. He hadn’t noticed that Sherlock was nursing a fizzy drink while he and John were sharing a pint. When they finally got the words out, John thought Greg might actually choke on his beer. After he’d got over his coughing fit and regained his breath, he just grinned. “The two of you…God, you’re going to be – and I’m not kidding – the most spectacular parents any child could hope for. This is one lucky kid you’re lugging around in there, Sherlock. Sodding brilliant news, this is”, he said, waving his hand in the general direction of Sherlock’s abdomen. They clinked their glasses in a toast, but then Sherlock was ready to get down to the rest of the conversation.

“What about everyone else? I mean, it’s not like they don’t all gossip and talk about me behind me back, hell, they insult me to my face fairly often. Once I can’t do my work anymore…I just don’t know what’s going to happen. I know I’m tolerated because I’m an asset, but I’m going to be useless soon.”

Lestrade reassured him immediately. “You think tackling criminals and running through alleyways is all you’re good for? For a bloody genius, that’s a pretty moronic idea. Yeah, maybe the physical part of it will have to change for a while, but your _brain_ is what keeps the Yard coming back for your help over and over again. You being up the duff isn’t going to make any difference. People can say what they want, you’ve never let it bother you before, no sense in starting now. And I can tell you this minute, I won’t tolerate any bigoted comments. I know I haven’t always been able to control the fact that there are…well, personality conflicts between you and some of the people on my team, but if I hear one person making a nasty remark about this pregnancy, they’ll be shut down before they even know what happened.”

Sherlock was honestly touched by Lestrade’s protective words, and he knew the man was telling the truth. Regardless of the unpleasant circumstances by which they’d become acquainted, Sherlock knew he was lucky to have this man as a friend. John felt the same way. 

Even Molly, when they finally got round to sharing the news with her, was surprisingly tender and emotional. “I’m so happy for you, both of you, I mean it. It’s going to be lovely, everything’s going to turn out fine, better than fine, I just know it”, she’d said, with that earnest and sincere smile of hers. 

They figured they’d just let word get around at the Met, they weren’t close enough to anyone there except Greg to make a point of sitting down and telling any of them. Surprisingly, there were no negative comments thrown in Sherlock’s direction, and he figured Lestrade had laid down the law. He really had no way to express how grateful he was for that. 

By the middle of the second trimester, though, things were changing rapidly. Sherlock felt better than he had in months, no more vomiting or extreme fatigue, but getting used to this new body shape was difficult, to say the least. To most people it wasn’t really obvious when he was wearing his coat and had his shirt untucked (tucked was no longer an option). Luckily, the weather had started to turn just enough that he could get away with keeping his coat on most of the time when he was out. But to him…he could see and feel every centimeter of it. His center of gravity had shifted, and he felt clumsy and awkward. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like three months from now. The thought of becoming a hermit and never leaving the flat had crossed his mind more than once. 

John did what he could. Without a word, he ordered trousers with adjustable loops inside the waistline to allow for growth to save Sherlock having to suffer the humiliation of walking around in trackpants, and left them in the wardrobe where Sherlock’s beautiful tailored clothes sat abandoned. As the weeks passed, and Sherlock started whining about not being able to button his shirts properly, John made a discreet trip to Blossom and purchased several ridiculously overpriced plain button-down maternity tops in different colors. 

And then came The Day. Yeah, that’s how John thought of it in his mind, and how Sherlock came to think of it, too. At first, Sherlock was worried that something was wrong. While in the shower, he noticed the strangest feeling in his belly, something completely foreign and a bit frightening. He wasn’t nauseous, it was just…odd, unidentifiable. But then he started doing the math in his head, figured out he was past the halfway mark of this insane journey and realized what it was. Throwing on a dressing gown without bothering to dry off, he shot out into the sitting room where John was casually enjoying his morning tea until he caught sight of a dripping wet Sherlock with a wild-eyed look on his face.

“John! It moved! The baby! I mean, I know it’s been moving all this time, but…I could _feel_ it! I could feel…oh God, I could feel it, like this, I don’t know, maybe a fluttery sort of thing, it was the **baby** , John! Moving around in there!”

“All right, all right, calm down, love. Have a seat here.” John was doing his level best to contain his excitement so that he could settle Sherlock down a bit. “You’re right on time, I think, from that last book…” He reached over to the ever-growing stacks of books about pregnancy and babies on the desk, and consulted the calendar function on his mobile. “Right, so, about twenty-two weeks now, yes, perfectly normal for you to start feeling the baby move around a bit.”

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, starting to gain his composure again slowly. “Can you feel it?” He grabbed John’s hand and placed it against his growing belly. 

“Not yet, I don’t think so. A few more weeks, and I’d bet I might be able to feel something. You’ve got an appointment coming up with the doctor, you know if you want to, we could find out if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Absolutely not. I already told you, it’s not important and we can save that until the end.”

John was a little disappointed, hoping Sherlock might want to find out the baby’s gender before it was born, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. 

Things seemed to be going fairly well, Sherlock still able to consult on cases, without even a single smartass remark from anyone, not even Anderson, about his changed physique. He figured no one was willing to risk being on the back end of Lestrade’s wrath, and he was thankful for that. It had been a relief to find that even though he missed the chase and the excitement, his insights and observations remained very useful. So he wasn’t running all over the city these days, but he was still contributing, still _working_. He had no trouble visiting crime scenes, examining evidence, sharing his observations. 

And then it hit – third trimester. 

Neither John nor Sherlock were prepared for the intensity of how much things were changing, quickly. Thirty weeks, and what had seemed once to be a long, long road was all of a sudden a ticking countdown in both their minds. Molly had brought up the idea of a baby shower to John, just once, and the look on his face had shut down that idea before he’d even had to speak. Sherlock would have been mortified. Still, John felt like he should do something. His lover’s moods had degenerated over the past couple of weeks, mostly swinging between grouchy and outright unapproachable. 

On a night when Sherlock was in a rare good mood, John crept into bed beside him, running both his hands over Sherlock’s swollen belly. “You’re beautiful, love, you know that?”

Sherlock just snorted in reply. “I’m a whale. An uncoordinated, clumsy, useless whale.”

“Shut up, you’re not. You’re _not_. I mean it.”

“Oh, don’t bother with your Captain Watson tone, darling, you can’t boss me out of how I feel.”

John just responded by laying kisses along Sherlock’s belly, moving slowly, feeling his lover relax underneath him. And then _it_ happened. Right against his cheek, John felt a swift movement, slight pressure, and he jerked his head up. 

“Sherlock! Was that – did you feel that?”

“Well, of course I did…wait, you mean _you_ felt it? You felt the baby move?”

It was all he could do to hold himself back from a fit of giggling, John was so thrilled. “Yes! Finally, yes, yes, I felt it! I want to feel it again. Please?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re a doctor, John, you must know I have no control over the movements of the fetus. But it does seem that if I’m lying still, it’s more active. If you just stay where you are, you’ll probably feel a bit more. I’m glad you enjoy it, the novelty’s worn off for me now that I’m getting the stuffing kicked out of me every time I try to rest.”

Unable to resist the chance to experience it again, John did exactly that, resting his head gently against Sherlock, and being rewarded with a few more soft movements against his face. “God, that’s amazing. Ours, it’s ours…our baby.” Christ, now he was getting teary, and that was just not on. So he did what he’d been planning on when he got into bed; reached down and fisted Sherlock’s dick, which started responding within a minute of his touch. 

Sherlock immediately gasped for breath, shocked by the sensation. They hadn’t been very active sexually in the past month or so. It was all right, he didn’t feel it like a rejection; he instinctively knew that John was nervous. It’s not like he’d fucked anyone who was pregnant before, and Sherlock knew John didn’t want to hurt him, worried about hurting the baby, a dozen other concerns probably packed into his brain alongside those. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity go, though, since it finally seemed his lover was willing to take the chance. 

“Please, John. Come on, it’s been forever, I’m not going to break, just do it, make love to me. You know I can’t…anyway, I want you to.”

John was eager but still a bit hesitant. Just the basic mechanics confused him. He wouldn’t have Sherlock on his knees underneath him, and it was pretty much impossible to get on top of him if he was on his back. Lucky for John, Sherlock had already considered this.

Rolling onto his side, Sherlock grabbed their bottle of lube and handed it back to John. “Like this, love”, he said, as he hitched up one leg to give John better access. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, give me a pillow.” John complied immediately and Sherlock shoved the pillow under his abdomen, providing him with more comfort and a better angle. “I need it, John. You need it too. The doctor already said it was fine as long as I’m not having any problems. And the only problem I have right now is lack of sex. Which you can fix right up for me, Dr Watson”, he finished with a smirk.

No more hesitancy remained as John worked Sherlock open slowly, carefully but with purpose. Sherlock keened and pushed back against his fingers, asking for what he really wanted without saying a word. Slicking up his cock, John kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck lovingly and pushed inside for the first time in weeks. The relief was almost immediate for both of them. John kept one hand firmly against Sherlock’s belly as he thrust gently into him, drawing it out for as long as he could as Sherlock fisted his own cock, stroking in time with John’s slow, tender movements. 

They both managed to last almost half an hour, whispering endearments and letting quiet moans of pleasure escape their lips. Finally, though, Sherlock tensed as he came and John followed him within a minute or two, gritting out his lover’s name through his orgasm. 

It didn’t take long before they were both pulled under the spell of post-coital sleep, still wrapped around each other, and John’s hand never leaving its place against the wonderful swell of Sherlock’s body, the place that had become the center of both their lives. 

When they woke, John remembered. “I’ve got something for you, love. A present”, he said, feeling more than a little nervous. They hadn’t discussed the discreet wardrobe changes that had occurred and Sherlock was still clearly uncomfortable (well, bitchy) about acknowledging how much his body had changed. 

A present, though…Sherlock’s eyes brightened. He’d never turn down a present. And he was still feeling half-high from last night’s sex. He pushed himself until he was sitting and responded, “Well? What is it?” with a smile. 

John moved quickly to the closet and pulled out a plain white box. It’s not like Sherlock would have appreciated wrapping paper and ribbons. A few days earlier, John had gone on a mission to find exactly what he wanted to get for Sherlock, though it hadn’t been easy. On ASOS, he’d found a single-breasted wool-blend coat, not as long as Sherlock’s, but high quality and certainly better suited to his current figure. He was still a bit hesitant, though. That coat was a part of Sherlock, but it didn’t fit right anymore, the weather had turned cold, and the baby wasn’t due until just after New Years. He’d need something like this, but John wasn’t sure he’d want it.

His fears were allayed almost immediately. Sherlock unfolded the coat and ran his hands over it, then looked up at John with uncharacteristic tears shining in his eyes. 

“This is incredibly thoughtful, John. I can tell you think I might pitch a fit over not wearing my usual coat, but…I don’t know what to say. Of course I don’t want to give up that coat I love so much, but clearly you did this with my comfort in mind, and I…thank you, just…thank you, love. You’ve been so wonderful, and I’ve been a spectacular arse throughout most of this.”

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock, you’ve been fine. Well, all right, sometimes you’ve been a right arse, but it’s to be expected. I’m watching all this happen, and you’re the one having to feel it all, make all the adjustments. I just want you to be comfortable. And warm. I know you’re not out as much as usual, but it’s gotten cold and we’ve got another couple of months left to go…”

Sherlock cut him off there with a kiss and pushed himself off the side of the bed, trying on the coat with nothing underneath. “It’s perfect, John. Perfect. And I love you.”

“Love you too, but you know you can’t go about with nothing but a coat on”, John responded, trying to lighten the mood. He still wasn’t used to this new sentimental streak of Sherlock’s that sometimes popped out of nowhere. And he was also well aware that these happy moods didn’t last long. He made the best of them when they came along, though.

At the thirty-five week mark, John had no choice but to plead with Sherlock to consult via phone and Skype. There had been too many times in the past when an ordinary crime scene inspection turned into something dangerous. He wasn’t going to try to order Sherlock into anything, he was certainly much smarter than that, but there was no way he could contain his concern this far into the pregnancy.

In an incredible turn of events, Sherlock didn’t even argue the point, he agreed immediately. He knew he was off his game. The physical discomfort of carrying this child forced him to move slowly and made it terribly difficult to get down to a floor and then back up again. He hated everyone seeing him have to accept help with the simple act of standing, it was humiliating and infuriating and horrid. Aside from that, he was distracted. His mind wasn’t working the way it usually did, slower making connections and sometimes making the wrong ones entirely. Sherlock was already feeling stressed from the dubious glances cast his way, and for God’s sake, he was _tired_. It seemed like everything he did took four times the energy it used to, while he was actually in possession of approximately four times less energy than he used to have. 

Not surprisingly, Mrs Hudson was an almost daily fixture once Sherlock was home every day. It seemed she’d forgotten all about that whole ‘not your housekeeper’ thing, fixing tea for Sherlock, straightening up the flat, even washing dishes on the rare occasions when John hadn’t gotten round to it. There was a line, though. When she’d offered to do the shopping, Sherlock refused, telling her he wouldn’t have her lugging bags of groceries when there was a perfectly capable Army doctor in residence who could accomplish that task. He knew John would have likely fallen down with apoplexy if he’d found out Mrs Hudson had carried bags from Tesco’s up to their flat. 

The next week was another date with their physician, an important one. Thirty-six weeks, officially, was a fetus at full term, the next four weeks being only growth and weight gain on the part of the baby and, of course, the parent. The news they got at this appointment, though, was not as routine as all the others had been. 

“Your blood pressure is a little high, Sherlock. Not alarmingly so, but higher than I’d like to see it. I know you aren’t going to like this, but I am going to recommend bedrest for the next couple of weeks.”

Of course, of course, Sherlock was immediately alarmed. “The baby’s all right, though? I mean, there’s no problem there, yeah?”

“No, please, don’t read any more into this than is necessary. It’s only a precaution. I can’t force you to be still throughout the holidays, but for you, it would be healthier. And a healthy parent is much more likely to produce a healthy baby. So think about it, at least.”

John piped up then. “So, bedrest…does that mean not getting up at all?”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’ve made it sound more difficult than it is, and I’m sorry. Sherlock, you’re perfectly fine to get up to use the loo and move about in your flat. But I’d recommend against taking stairs or going out too much. This is not a requirement, you and the baby are still healthy, aside from just a slightly elevated blood pressure, it’s just a suggestion.”

Sherlock just felt…well, defeated. He started this whole thing thinking he’d be able to go on about his life as usual, up to a certain point. It seemed that certain point had finally arrived. To be honest, though, he barely left their flat these days anyway. They left the doctor’s office in a somber mood. 

John hadn’t said anything, waiting for Sherlock to give his reaction, which would certainly be more than a bit not good. It wasn’t what he’d imagined, though. 

“Christmas is coming, we’re supposed to be visiting, socializing with our friends. I can’t do that from bed, and it’s going to ruin the whole thing for you. I know how you love the holidays, John. I’m sorry.”

And no, _fuck_ no, _hell_ no, that was just certainly not on. “Don’t you dare, Sherlock. Don’t you bloody dare apologize for keeping care of yourself and our baby. There’s a little holiday party at Mrs Hudson’s place, I don’t think it’s going to hurt anything for you to just go downstairs and rest on the sofa while we visit with our friends. Other than that, there’s nothing to be worried about other than you being in a foul temper from having to be still for just a couple of weeks.”

Sherlock grinned then, understanding that John was trying to put him at ease. Always, always, Sherlock and the baby first, from the very beginning of all this. He should have known that John would have pretended that Christmas didn’t even exist this year if it meant keeping Sherlock happy and their child safe. 

And so they found themselves, a fortnight later, settled comfortably into Mrs Hudson’s sitting room, fairy lights adorning the windows and their friends dressed up to drink eggnog and exchange gifts. Even without having to go outside, Sherlock had worn the coat that John had given him, and received several compliments on it. Everyone was exceptionally tactful, probably because they were afraid Sherlock would get stroppy if he thought he was being coddled. They talked a little about how they’d turned the upstairs bedroom into a nursery, nothing fancy, just a crib and a dresser. There was a bassinet already moved into their room – one of the Yarders who was a mother had helpfully suggested having the baby sleep in there for the first little while instead of one or both of them having to go upstairs every time he or she woke up in the night. Their friends had even made a point of exchanging non-baby-related gifts with John and Sherlock, because this wasn’t a baby shower, after all. 

Except Molly, who’d gotten more and more quiet and the gift exchange went on. When it was finally her turn, she had a shy and chastened look on her face. “I hope it’s all right, I’ve just gotten one gift, and it’s…it’s for the baby, really, like an early birthday present, kind of…”

John spoke up immediately. “Of course it’s all right, Molly, it’s very sweet.” As he sat next to Sherlock on the sofa, they opened the box to find a very soft, very beautiful afghan in shades of light to dark green. 

Sherlock clutched the blanket and looked up at her. “It’s beautiful, Molly, honestly, just lovely. Where ever did you find this?” 

John quickly added, “If you don’t mind us asking”, because Sherlock never considered whether or not it was all right to ask a question.

If it was possible for the poor girl to look even more nervous, she certainly did as she responded, “Oh, I – I made it. Learned from my mum when I was just a girl but I’ve never had occasion to really do anything with it. Until now, I guess.”

And maybe the world was ending, because Sherlock left the blanket in John’s lap, levered himself up off the sofa, and kissed Molly on the cheek. “How incredibly kind of you, Molly. Thank you so much.”

Before Molly had a chance to start crying, Sherlock sat back down and let the conversation shift, not wanting her to feel like everyone was looking at her, because he knew she hated that. And when the hell had he gotten so sentimental? Hormones, he figured. 

By the time John and Sherlock had made their way back to their flat, John carrying their bag of gifts while Sherlock still held the little green blanket, they were both exhausted. They headed immediately to the bedroom, but before even getting undressed, he placed the blanket in the tiny bassinet, smiling to himself. 

The morning brought a much more serious situation. Sherlock nudged John awake before the sun, his eyes still closed and his body curled up. “John. John, it hurts. It _hurts_. Not like those whatever you call them, practice contraction things. Bloody hell, this hurts, fuck, John, what is it?”

John was immediately completely alert. “How long? When did it start feeling like this?” he asked, touching Sherlock’s belly, which felt like a fucking solid surface. 

“An hour, maybe. I thought it would go away but it’s not going away, it’s not, it’s not going away, I don’t like it, it’s different, it hurts my back and my legs too, it’s all _wrong_ ” he replied, the look on his face one of terror John had never seen before. There were even the beginnings of tears in his eyes, not from emotion or frustration or anger as John had gotten used to lately, but from pain. And Jesus fucking Christ, he’d seen Sherlock have a broken ankle set at A&E without having shed a single tear. 

After a minute, though, Sherlock started to relax, got his breath back a bit. “What the mother fuck was that?”

Okay, cursing again, not good. John tried to stay calm. “It’s all right. Might have really been a contraction. Let’s just wait and see, all right?” He reached over and pressed the stopwatch function on his mobile. When Sherlock started to tense up again, he checked it – eight minutes, nineteen seconds. 

Fuck.

“John, this isn’t – it’s not time yet, there’s almost two weeks left, we haven’t got the bottles we were going to pick up and we didn’t – we haven’t – it’s not _time_ , I’m not ready, it’s too early…goddamnit, fuck, John, it hurts…”

“Shhhhhh, calm down, love, breathe, remember like we practiced?”

“Call the fucking doctor! I don’t want to breathe all stupid like that! And stop touching me!”

All right, then. John spoke quietly into the phone, explained the situation, and the doctor asked him to please get Sherlock in to the operating suite connected to his office right away. 

“When you feel like you can stand, I need you to get up, Sherlock. I’m calling Mycroft for a car, don’t argue, we’re not waiting for a taxi.”

It was another three or four minutes, but Sherlock finally found the strength to sit on the edge of the bed. John slipped some shoes on him, and brought him his coat. By the time they made their way down the steps, there was, of course, a car waiting right at the curb. Just as they were opening the door, Mrs Hudson appeared, taking in the sight of them and immediately sizing up the situation. She just nodded at them, told them to call before they headed back home, and slipped back into her flat.

Once they got into the doctor, things seemed to move with lightning speed. Sherlock knew he was going to have surgery, had researched the epidural nerve block he’d have to endure, but still held fast to John’s hand as the needle slid into his back. 

“I know you think it’s too early, but I promise you, it’s not”, the doctor explained after the anesthesia had been administered. “This baby is ready, so the two of you have got to be ready now too.”

And all this time, so many months, both of them thought when the time came, they _would_ be ready. They’d been dead wrong about that. Sherlock looked up at John, searching for comfort as he could feel the movement and pressure of what the doctor was doing, even though he felt no pain. For his part, John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s except for the sneak peeks over the curtain as the doctor did his work. He’d seen this before, even done it once, during his medical school years, but when he was emotionally invested like this, it didn’t seem the same at all. 

After just ten minutes or so, the sound they’d all been waiting for pierced the air in the small room. Sherlock was exhausted but managed a grin, and John thought he might fall down with relief when he heard the baby’s first cries. 

“You’ve got yourselves a daughter, gentlemen. Congratulations.” She was quickly swept away to be checked out, cleaned up, placed on a scale, and wrapped in a blanket before she was placed in John’s eagerly awaiting arms. Immediately, John leaned down so that Sherlock could reach up to touch her perfect, wrinkled pink face, take in the sight of this amazing little miracle that had been given to them. 

“Dr Watson, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to step out while we stitch everything back up. Procedure, there’s no way around it. You can take her with you, though. I’m putting a sedative into Sherlock’s IV, he won’t even know you’re gone, I promise.”

Once they were all together again in a proper room and Sherlock was alert, the first question he asked was, “What are we going to name her? I can’t believe we didn’t decide that already.”

“No, love, I think it’s better like this, getting a good look first, seeing if she looks like a Jessica or an Amanda or whatever.”

“Right, so neither of those. But we have a little time, right?”

“We have all the time we need. You know when we were babies, sometimes parents took a whole week to pick out a name. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure all of it out”, John replied, kissing Sherlock’s forehead, then their baby girl’s. 

“You’d better call Mrs Hudson, she’ll have been staring at her mobile since we walked out the door.”

“All right. I’ll leave her right here with you and go out to the hallway to make some calls.”

As soon as they were alone, Sherlock whispered into her ear, “I already know your name, little one. Let’s just give your dad a chance to think he had a say in it, all right?”

*****  
Epilogue

“Emmeline! What have you got into now?”

Sherlock, of course, jumped to her defense immediately. “It’s just an experiment. Nothing to worry about, John.”

“Right, an _experiment_ to see how long it’s going to take you to scrub those crayons off the wall in here. No wait, you don’t think it’s going to be you, is it?”

Emmeline looked up at her dad with a perplexed expression. “Pretty, Da!. Papa said pretty!”

John’s heart melted a little, and he found himself unable to be angry about the crayon markings all over the white walls of her bedroom. 

She was beautiful the moment she was born, and now, just a little more than two years later, she was still absolutely breathtaking. Dark, curly locks framing her face (Sherlock), upturned nose (John), a determined and proud look on her face (both of them). 

During those first harrowing months, they’d gratefully accepted the help offered to them by Mrs Hudson, who had clearly spent some time with babies even though she hadn’t had any of her own, and by Greg, who’d been through it twice and gave them some of the best advice they could have ever hoped for. With time, though, Sherlock and John settled into it, learning as they went along. Sherlock had stuck John with the recent development of potty-training, and John had pawned off diaper-changes and middle of the night bottles on Sherlock. They worked together well as parents, so it seemed. John arranged his shifts at the surgery around Sherlock’s work with the Yard – it wasn’t the same now that they weren’t working together anymore, but one of them had to be home with the baby. On the occasions when Sherlock required John’s assistance at a crime scene, Mrs Hudson or Molly happily volunteered to babysit. 

So, some things had changed. After the birth of their daughter, Sherlock never went back to chasing criminals down alleyways and he avoided putting himself in dangerous situations whenever he could help it. John made sure his shifts were reasonable, no more doubles or all-nighters. They had something more important now, this sweet, precocious baby girl (not so much a baby anymore, talking and walking and voicing opinions) that was theirs to protect, to love, to care for. Emmeline had brought a balance to their life, and it wasn’t routine or boring, because there was always _her_. So maybe Sherlock let her get away with things that John would rather he didn’t, and maybe John was slightly more overbearing than Sherlock would prefer. No different than any other parents, they figured. It wasn’t really any surprise that Sherlock was the indulgent parent and John was the strict one, not to them and not to anyone who knew them. 

The years ahead would be alternatively easier and more difficult for both men, as they would eventually find out. But it was nothing they couldn’t deal with. Sure, there would be arguments, raised voices, nights spent on the sofa, but honestly, even if they hadn’t had a child to argue over, that would have happened anyway. 

Right now, though, at this moment, their precious little one was looking between her Da and her Papa, trying to figure out whether or not she’d done something wrong. The moment her bottom lip started poking out in the preamble to a good cry, John scooped her up and held her close.

“Of course they’re pretty pictures, darling. Your Papa knows pretty when he sees it.”

Emmeline’s bright grin was all it took for John to forget about the crayon on the wall.


End file.
